


something in the air

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [65]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, Illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the violent aftermath of the Cherub invasion, the citizens of the trailer park face new challenges and a new visitor in their neighborhood. </p><p>Takes place after "the hard goodbye".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the unknown

**Author's Note:**

> We're back for act four, baby. Hang onto your seats.

**== >Be an outsider**

 

The city of New Jack didn't seem like there had been any sort of violence or any sort of gang war that had gone down. On the surface, everything always remained the same. The same city, the same buildings, the same people moving about in a faceless mass through the streets without taking notice of what happened at the bottom. Things changed though. Little by little, they changed. Slowly shifting and in a few years things wouldn't be the same--although it would always feel no different until decades had passed.

New Jack had changed over the decades--taller, larger--but the violence and strata of society remained. You hadn't been to the city in so long, you had almost forgotten how much you honestly never had cared for the place. How much it had never been a home no matter what others told you or how far you lived from its reach.

Your name is…well…

You had a few names in your lifetime. Different alias and personas you've adopted to keep moving from place to place and leave no tracks. You were a hard troll to pin down. But the first name you always kept close. Petros. Petros was the name given to you by your lusus and the name you continued to always hold near and dear to your center as the truest you. A fitting name as in your now ancient native tongue, it had meant rock. It was a rock. It kept you centered no matter how many faces and titles you adopted.

You could always come back to Petros.

You lean against the dark building, slowly lighting a cigarette as you watch the police lurch into motion. The news media is already on their way to the trailer park, multiple stations hauling ass to get to the story before the other does. The police is much slower in the response but they’re moving like a swarm of locusts. A cluster of ambulances, police cars, and vans hurry across Interstate 36; lighting up the dark parking lot with red and blue. The initial cluster races off the highway, pulling off into the main road that borders Aniline End and the industrial park, which ends in the trailer park. A secondary wave of cars crosses the highway, coming from the outlying communities in East and West New Jack. With this many police out, some shit was going down in the trailer park but you didn’t need a phone to tell you that. A little bird had informed you about everything.

And by little bird, you mean a red-breasted robin that had been nesting in the eaves of the Maryam trailer. They had seen questionable people messing with the transformer. They had been around when the power went out and the first gunshots fired. Without the transformer, people couldn’t call for help on their house phones. They had to rely on cellphones ( _if_ they possessed them and _if_ they were charged) and police took those cellphone calls and messages with a grain of salt.

Some interference was necessary on your part. You went into the police station alone and got them moving, mostly on a large bribe. You even got in touch with some contacts that could help out. You did the usual passive help but more needed to be done.

It was time to take responsibility for the past.

Perhaps you should clarify more about your identity. You often get so vague on the details.

You push away from the building. The eastern half of Fairmont Shoppes is entirely dark, with the parking lot and security lights out. Come early morning, the police will be holding back Aniline End looters from ransacking stores, but that’s not your concern. You head to your motorbike parked nearby, swinging a leg over it and starting the engine.

 

 

You are Petros Nitram, but you were also known as the Summoner. The same Summoner who was said to have been lost in a storm decades ago. The same Summoner whose moirail had decided to share her secret of longevity as he had never born any crimes or slights against her or her matesprit. The same Summoner whose hands were just as dirty as theirs when it came to the ruin of their descendants.

You blow out a cloud of smoke from your nostrils, the gold nose ring glinting in the dim moonlight. You’ve been avoiding New Jack since Mindfang and you had your falling out. Your anger had lingered for so long...but what was the point now? She wouldn’t recognize you even if you walked through her door. The Mindfang you knew is dead and you’re tired of holding onto your anger. You’re tired of bouncing around. Tired of the lies.

Tired of being on the sidelines.

You rev the engine and push down the pedal, soon tearing out of the parking lot and down the highway. Your bike is more of a small car for the trolls of today. Honestly, it was sometimes alarming when you, a brownblood, were now taller than most highbloods these days. People looked at you in shock when a bronzeblood of your size walked around. They didn’t understand that it was all diet and environment really. You grew up wild and free as any troll could; far from the cities and in the forests.

You could have easily flown to the trailer park, but you didn't want to bring too much attention to yourself or be reported as a UFO or unknown alien... _again_. Being large and having a broad wingspan tended to make people panic.

You exit the highway, turning down a side street to avoid the flock of police and media using the main road. You weave through the industrial park, cutting across the parking lots not blocked off by fencing. The drive is familiar. You never forgot the roads, although in disrepair and grown over in parts. Some old roads have disappeared, retaken by the swamp.

Your sharp eyes pick out the turn off to Darkleer Manor. Cobblestones had lined the pathway, leading up to the gate of the community. Now there were huge muddy pockets were stones had been pried out for cheap resale or construction in Aniline End. The rest of the stones were buried under mud. The tension in your muscles builds as you pass the road. You hadn’t lived in the manor but that place had an unpleasant ambience.

Especially for you.  

You slow down as you enter the park, feeling a sick lump form in your stomach as you observe it. You remember when the trailer park was just a long messy pattern of wetlands and billabongs. It had been beautiful…the land rights had been ‘lost’ and thus some greedy carapaces were able to bribe their way into owning it. Perhaps if you looked hard enough, you could find the rights, but what good would that do now? The wetlands had been drained and cheap housing slapped on top of it. You can smell the impurities in the water from the chemical leak, which must be concealed in the swamp and draining out here. The air has a plastic taste to it, acerbic and harsh to your mouth. What had once been vast green marshland is now a toxic stew that nourishes toxic trolls and bitter attitudes. 

All these years you knew your descendants lived in these rancid conditions and didn’t lift a finger. You didn’t do anything because you were scared to face the past and Mindfang with it. Perhaps you still flushed for her. Perhaps you didn't. You buried that question long ago, when your family laid out a grave plot for you. You thought the plaque was nice; the perfect end for your failed matespritship.

You move further into the trailer park. You’ve only seen static images of the neighborhood but now you don’t recognize it at all. Its not the damage or the chaos that shocks you but the smell. Garbage has been thrown everywhere; dirty diapers in the street, plastic bags in the trees, broken beer bottles spread across lawns, and everything with a thick coating of mephitic mud. Ten police cars have shown up, parking on lawns to make way for ambulances. Nothing is organized and even the police seem confused about what happened here. They came too late to stop the firefight or prevent the injuries and deaths. Now they’re just trying to figure out what happened, whose going to jail, whose going to the hospital, and whose fault this was in the first place. You see a white carapace arguing with the police over who was responsible, the damages to be done, and so on and so forth.

The media is in the midst of a feeding frenzy. You’ve encountered sharks with better decorum than these eager would-be journalists. Cameras and microphones are shoved in the face of frightened neighbors and residents. The local news hasn’t had a story this good since the last political scandal. A bold reporter tries to get a black coat to speak on camera but they’re given the silent and indifferent treatment.

Off to the side (and away from the journalists), a cluster of black coats speak with the police. There are zealous officers to keep journalists from filming or photographing the interaction. You assume the black coats are speaking about what happened.

The black coats have cleared away some of the garbage and set up a single tent in the middle of the road. It’s a standard emergency relief tent with a sun roof, mosquito netting windows, and a cloth flap for entrance and exit. You don’t see any of your descendants standing in the street, so you assume that’s where they are.

You move through the disorder of local police and EMT crews (everyone too concerned to pay you any attention) and approach the tent. You shut off the engine and let out a deep breath. You slide off the bike and stand, reaching up to smooth your hair. You straighten your jacket; red and black with animal patterns (modeled after the one you had on Alternia). Your wings are tucked in close to your body, easy to miss unless you caught a glimpse of the golden glimmer when the light catches them just right.

Its now or never.

You don’t have any delusions about this meeting. There’s definitely going to be anger for…how long you’ve been gone, along with questions. Questions as to why you’re still young while the others withered; a question you can’t answer without betraying your moirail. Your moirail is another issue you can’t get into at this time. You briefly consider the answer of “the others were paying for their sins” because it would be the pot calling the kettle black. You may be a lot of things but you’re not a hypocrite.

After all, everyone thought Darkleer had killed himself. No one knew he hadn't pulled the trigger. Only you know about the single decision that haunts you; that tore a rift in your matespritship until you took off and didn’t look back. You explored the world and finally, after all this time, returned to where your family called home. Idly, you wonder if maybe…maybe this time it could be home.

You take a final deep breath and move to the tent, opening the flap. You have to duck your head so you can get your horns in. The inside of the tent is bright, lit with ethanol lanterns, and crowded with people. Your descendants are here, grouped off to the left of the entrance, and in the midst of a discussion. Aranea has grown up to be beautiful and Horuss is next to her. Rufioh looks like you did all those years ago on Alternia, although lines of age are creasing around his mouth. He’s rolling a blunt with Porrim next to him.

You don’t say anything. You wait for them to notice you. Rufioh is the first to see you. He drops the blunt he’d been lighting up, mouth agape. Aranea goes pale with shock, but then her eyes narrow in a flare-up of rage. Others notice you and the conversations in the room slowly die out. Eyes bore into you with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and shock.

You offer a slight smile, baring your fangs a bit before you finally manage to speak.

 

 

“Long time no see.”


	2. the unbeliever

“No.” you whisper.

It’s the first word that comes to your mind when you see the large brownblood. Your memories of your father are clear, from the sound of his voice to the curves of his face. Time hasn’t altered him. He still has his nose ring and his old long sleeve jacket. There aren’t any lines of age on his face. He’s frozen, as if petrified in time.

“Aranea--” your father begins.

“ _No_.” you hiss, because you don’t want to hear whatever he has to say. Not now. Not when you’re standing in this tent because everyone you know had almost been killed. Not when you’re still living in this ugly park. “No, you do not…you _can’t_ come back! You just _can’t_! You’re _dead_! You’re supposed to be _dead_!”

You realize only now that you’re breathing heavily and shouting.

Rufioh’s warm hand touches your shoulder. “Sis…”

You move away from his attempts to console you, eyes still on your father. “You can’t be alive. Not after…after everything that’s happened. How can you…how can you still be…”

The night has been too long and too stressful for you to deal with this right now. Cerulean tears run down your face. You’re crying like a hurt child and you don’t know what to do with yourself. You wish Meenah was here instead of being barricaded in her trailer with Feferi. You wish everything would just stop for the night so you could recollect yourself.

If only.

Horuss pulls you into a hug, stroking your hair. You’re crying without reason now. You don’t know if you’re happy, sad, or just angry that your father is in such a health condition and your mother’s not. You hold your matesprit because you can’t hold your moirail.

“Its been a _long_ night.” You hear Rufioh say to your father. His voice is distance and dry, leaves rustling in the wind. He doesn’t want to make a spectacle of himself like you, so he’s holding all his feelings in for now. “Dad.” he adds after a pause.  

“Yeah. Sort of figured that.” your father agrees.


	3. the unsure

**== >Aranea: Be Rufioh until Aranea calms her shit **

 

Your father is as tall and dark as you remembered him, but he hasn’t changed and that bothers you more than his appearance. Your mental image of your father is always old, just like your mother. He would have far more wrinkles and his brittle horns would be breaking off. At some point, they would just stop growing back. All his hair would be grey and most of his teeth fallen out. He would have died years before your mother even had a grey hair.

Yet here he is: pristine and not even a touch of senility. He looks to be in his late twenties when he should be (roughly) in his seventies. Maybe he’s dyed his hair or received some expensive cosmetic treatment, but you don’t think your father would be so vain.

“Its uh…um.” You can’t think of a cohesive sentence to put together while looking at your father.

You’re thankful when Tavros comes over with Gamzee following close behind. Your son’s mouth is hanging open as he looks at your father. 

“Is… _that_ who I think it is?” Tavros asks.

Its then you recall that your father has never met his grandchildren. You nod to Tavros. “Dad, this is Tavros. One of your…grandsons. Grandchildren. They’re my children. Aranea has two. They’re”—you look around briefly and see Vriska and Kanaya are nowhere to be found—“not here right now but I’m sure you’ll meet them at some point.”

Your father nods to Tavros but his eyes are locked on Gamzee. “Nice to meet you.” he says, steady.

“That’s Gamzee,” you add, “his matesprit.”

“Nice to meet you.” your father says, neutrally. You can’t see Gamzee’s reaction to that. Its been hard to read his face since he grew his hair out long.

“Equius is my other son.” You continue. As if on cue, Equius, Nepeta, Aradia, and Meulin are moving to the front of the tent.  

“What’s going on?” Equius asks, eyes on your father.

“Equius, this is your grandfather. The uh…” You don’t know what your father calls himself now. Like the other parents from Alternia, you never learned his real name.

“It’s just Petros now.” Your father says.

“ _Jegus_ , he’s big.” Aradia mutters.

Nepeta smirks. “Tavros is going to be a _giant_ when he molts.”

“Yeah, right,” Tavros snorts, “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I got that tall all of a sudden. I’m not _Karkat_.”

Karkat, of course, overhears this and pushes through the crowd with little resistance. “Who the hell is saying my na— _whoa_.”

Then Karkat sees your father and goes very still, like a mouse that’s just smelled a cat upwind of them, but there’s no fear in his eyes. You’ve been with enough animals and trolls to know that dilated pupils mean recognition and curiosity. Your father tilts his head slightly but doesn’t look away from the large mutantblood. All other conversations in the tent temporarily hush to see who will speak first.

“So…” Karkat says, slowly, “…you’re Petros.”

Your father opens his mouth but then closes it. He smiles slightly. “Yes, that’s me. _Karkat_.”

A few people in the tent exhale and the tension disperses. Karkat looks away, his cheeks darkening with red, mimicking the surface of a ripe cherry. He moves closer to your father.

“Good to meet you.” Karkat says, “I wish we could roll out the red carpet but I think it would be covered in mud and garbage just like everything else.”

“I don’t need a red carpet. I’m just a relative, not a celebrity.” Your father chuckles.

“Coming back from the dead would make you some kind of celebrity.” Aranea says, her voice low, “Maybe the world’s greatest magician.”

“Aranea,” your father sighs, “I didn’t mean to leave you kids behind on purpose.”

“What a wonderful rehearsed response, _father_.” Aranea answers, “You can take it and write on a magical letter that can be delivered to me twenty four years into the past, when I _wanted_ to hear it.”

“I _can’t_ change the past. All I can do is make amends for it.” Your father says.

“Amends isn’t what I want to hear!” Aranea snaps. She turns away before your father can respond, walking off. Horuss sighs and follows her.

“Yeah…” you sigh, looking at your father, “…she’s gonna be mad for a while.”

“I figured _someone_ would be.” Your father says, “Its not like she’s wrong in what she says.”

You know the look in your father eyes. He wonders if you’re angry as well and honestly? You still don’t know how you feel. You’re more freaked out than anything. You want to ask questions before you start groping at unsteady emotions. You have so many questions to ask but you can’t do it here. It’s a private issue—a _family_ issue—and you don’t want other people involved.

Tavros has other concerns, looking at your father. “Still can’t believe _you’re_ my grandfather. You don’t even look…how old are you? Sixty? Seventy?” He smirks at Gamzee. “I’m going to be a total GILF.”

“ _Tav_.” you warn.

“What? Grandpa looks only _twenty_ at the oldest!” Tavros says, blunt as always.

“I’m sure the attendants at the nursing home Gamzee will put you in will be very pleased with your GILFness, Nitram.” Karkat snorts. He’s still not looking directly at your father.

Your father laughs. “A good diet and exercise will do wonders for you.”

“Do you have a place to stay, Dad?” you ask, changing the subject away from your father’s looks.

“I haven’t really picked out a place. I just came into the city on a whim.” Your father shrugs. “Maybe I’ll stay in the swamps. The trees are comfortable.”

“In the swamps? No way, Dad. You can stay with us.”

“Stay where exactly? You only have two bedrooms.” Porrim says.

“He can stay in Tav’s room.” You say.

“ _What_.” Tavros says.

“Hell no.” Gamzee growls.

“You don’t even _live_ in my trailer.” You say, glaring at your would be son-in-law.

“But my _matesprit_ does.” Gamzee snarls, “And in case you haven’t noticed, some green-faced motherfuckers fucked up _my_ trailer. Ain’t nobody staying in there for a while.”

Tavros touches Gamzee’s left arm, which is the only one not bandaged. You can dislike Gamzee all you want but he’s loyal to his quadrants. If Gamzee hadn’t returned to your trailer, Tavros would have been killed by the Cherubs. He wouldn’t have first and second degree burns from the broken Molotov cocktail bottle if he didn’t protect this neighborhood as much as you did.

“Mom, our trailer is small and Grandpa is well”--Tavros gestures to your father’s bulk—“ _that_. I don’t really care if he wants to stay but I’m not sure if he’ll be comfortable. We still…I don’t know if the black coats or the cops or whoever took the…bodies. Considering what Gamzee did.”

“It wasn’t pretty.” Gamzee admits.

Aradia pats her moirail on the shoulder. “You can always stay with Equius and me.”

Gamzee and Tavros look stricken by the notion of staying with Equius and Aradia, whose home has become known as the Trailer of Awkward Horrors.

Luckily, Porrim swoops in, saying, “There’s my trailer too. I doubt Vriska will want to stay long.” She looks at your father. “You could stay temporarily in Tavros’s room until the storage closet is cleaned out.”

Your father smiles. “Its hard to be squeamish when you grow up in the Alternian forests. Nature isn’t ‘squeaky clean’ as the movies would have you believe.”

You’re happy at least Porrim and your father will get along.

“Have fun with that then.” Tavros snorts, “Looks like we’re staying with Porrim, or with Feferi and Meenah. Whenever they get here.”

“They must still be barricaded inside their trailer. They should be coming here soon.” Karkat says.

You look to your father. “Did you see which neighborhoods are out of power?”

“Half of the Ninth Ward,” your father answers, “the park is dark but so are the industrial park, Fairmont Shoppes, and a medium-sized chunk of Aniline End from what I could tell.”

“So, Aniline End pirates half of its electricity from someplace else…” Karkat mutters.

Nepeta has other concerns. “That means the plaza will be shut down until power comes back on. Where are we supposed to get generators and other supplies from? All our food is going to go bad.”  

“We’ll just have to find another place.” Equius says, “There has to be other stores that sell generators.”

The flap opens and three people step in. One of them is Dirk Strider, whose expression is unreadable with his shades on. The other is a tealblood woman in a uniform escorting a human in SWAT gear with his mask pulled up. Dirk leaves their sides, rejoining the crowd and heading to Dave and Jade. The group shifts away from the police, watching them closely.

“I’m Chief Swan. This is Officer Caegar.” says the human, “We’ve spoken with your… _friends_ …in black about what went on here tonight. Seems like all our culprits are dead but we have a neighborhood full of frightened witnesses, including yourselves. We also have several counts of property damage, illegal firearms, illegal incendiary weapons, illegal use of psionics…the list goes on. Point is that everyone else here is pointing the fingers at _you_ _people_ ”—he gesture to everyone in the tent—“as being the crux of this conflict. Yet no one seems to know why. Anyone got something to tell us?”

The answer is silence. No one here trusts the police enough to tell the truth, not with the high amount of corruption and bias New Jack is infamous for. Admitting a troll owned weapons was signing a search warrant and a stay in prison.

“There’s no reason to be afraid.” Caegar says, “We’re going to make sure something like this never happens again in your district, but we can’t do that if we don’t know what’s going on.”

No one speaks up or moves. After five minutes of silence, there’s a shift in the back of the tent. Roxy moves forward through the group. Dirk briefly touches her on the shoulder but she pushes his hand away, like a gnat had just landed there. The glare she gives him is murderous.

Roxy stands at the front of the crowd. “My daughter got involved with the Cherubs. When she figured out who they were, she tried to leave. They wanted to kill her, so we hid her. Then they wanted to kill us, so we fought back.”

Swan exhales sharply but Caegar doesn’t take her eyes off of Roxy.

“And you didn’t think to go to the police about you?” Caegar asks.

“Look _around_ you.” Roxy snaps, “Do you think _anyone_ in this neighborhood trusts the police? Half the people here are ex-cons. The other half is immigrants. _I’m_ an immigrant and I’ve been harassed by cops the minute I came to this country for being a ‘parasite’. Every time the cops are called, they show up hours later. Like you just did _now_.”

Swan doesn’t hide his annoyance with Roxy’s statement. He looks to Caegar, who must be the one to deal with the angry locals more often than he does. It must be why he brought in an officer and not an investigator. Anyone with standing in the NJPD wouldn’t want to deal with anyone in the Ninth Ward.

Caegar steps forward and clears her throat. 

“This is what we’re going to do,” she says, “we’re going to have a media blackout about this situation. _You_ ”—she points to Roxy but you know she means everyone—“are not going to talk to any reporters, journalists, or anyone looking for a ‘scoop’. Don’t even speak to strangers who might be undercover journalists. If you speak to the media, we may not be able to protect you as easily. If you suspect you are being spied on or followed by the media, you will report to the police immediately. I know it sounds unlikely but it can happen in the case of some zealous tabloids.

“When you exit this tent, you are going straight to your homes. Those of you with loved ones who were injured during this night are being transported to the intensive care unit at New Jack General as we speak. As they are both critical witnesses to what happened here tonight, they were under police watch. Those who are going to visit said loved ones in the hospital will also be escorted by police. Tomorrow morning, you will all have official NJPD incident report forms delivered to your homes which will be filled out for your insurance companies and landlord to handle the damages just like everyone else. Yes, its pedantic and bureaucratic but it’s how things are done so deal with it if you want reimbursement for what happened here tonight. As of now, this neighborhood is now under the close watch and protection of the NJPD.”

It’s now that the crowd (and you) are starting to speak up. A lot of people are annoyed about how the police had been ignoring their district and now they’re going to be shoved up your waste chute about what’s going on.

“For how long?” you ask.

“What about the illegal weapons?” Karkat asks.

“Yeah, is anyone going to be arrested?” Tavros asks.

“What about the damages?” asks Nepeta.

“ _Listen up!”_ snaps Swan, raising his voice over the din, “I’m only going to say this once: under the Stand Your Ground and Castle Laws, we can’t arrest you during this situation for illegal weaponry and illegal use of psionics because you were defending your homes from intruders. We’re not bogging down the courts with some asinine accusations, but I will say this: during this period of lockdown, you will be under police watch 24/7. That means if we see _any illegal activities_ and that includes illegal weapon ownership _and_ psionic use, you _will_ be arrested, you _will_ be processed, and you _will_ be sent to jail for however long the courts determine it. And those of those who are ex-con will most likely be in jail for the _rest of your life_ if this is your third strike and those of you who are not citizens will be either banned from the city or _deported_. _Anyone got a problem with that?_ ”

Its an extreme reaction but this isn’t a normal situation. The neighborhood’s destroyed, a lot of people were hurt, and a lot of people are definitely pissed off at you for the damage their trailer took. No one protests but no one is happy about the situation. Roxy’s expression is bitter but not surprised. You’re concealing your annoyance behind a mask of indifference. With the police watching so closely, you won’t be able to sell your weed as easily. You’ll have to also be more vigilant when you’re flying to make sure they’re not following you either.

“Those who are going to New Jack General should leave now.” Swan says.

There’s a hum of discussion. Dave looks uneasy, unwilling to leave his pregnant matesprit but not wanting to miss visiting his injured father. He moves forward Dirk but Dirk shakes his head. Its only a slight gesture but Dave nods and stays where he is. The Striders behave like that; all small indications and little conversation.

As for John, you have to squint to find him. Everyone is standing but John is still sitting in the far back of the tent. He’s slouched over and his bandaged head is dotted with blood. You can’t tell if he’s exhausted or passed out. People look in his direction but then look away. He needs time on his own to recover.

“I’m coming.” Roxy says, “I’m important to Jane and her son’s not in a good condition.”

“I’m coming as well.” Dirk says. His voice is low and dangerous. He wants to come as much as a cat enjoys being on a leash.

Caegar nods. “It may seem extreme now but this is for the best. Your folks aren’t going to have a thing to worry about with the NJPD finally handling this. The first thing we’re going to do is clean this place up. Rutpol is going to have to answer for these conditions you’ve been living in. Its going to be alright.”

Its not going to be alright. Your neighborhood is trashed, your home is bloodied and smells of death, you can’t fly, and now your father is here when he’s supposed to have been dead. When Dirk and Roxy leave the tent, there’s no explosion of noise like you expected. Everyone is too tense to speak and afraid of what’s going to happen next.

Karkat breaks the silence first, looking at Kankri and Terezi. Kankri is holding his matesprit close, standing at the bank of the tent.

“Did you get in contact with Cronus?” Karkat asks.

Terezi blinks, then shakes her head. “Not yet. My phone is dead.”

“You can use mine.” Kankri whispers.

With the silence gone, other conversations begin. Karkat moves to the back, where Dave, Jade, and John are.

Tavros moves closer to you. “So, I talked it over with Gamzee. We’re going to Meenah’s trailer to check on Feferi. He’s worried about her.” He wraps his arms around himself, like he’s cold even though its sweltering in the tent. It’s a gesture repeated time and time again since he quit smoking. “I…can’t go back to the trailer now.”

“Tav, its okay.” You touch his cheek. “You just stay where you’re comfortable. Maybe its best if you don’t stay around Vriska.”

“ _Mom_ ,” A bronze blush blooms across Tavros’s face but he doesn’t push your hand away. He smiles, showing off his fanged overbite, “I’m not a little pupa anymore. I can handle Vriska.”

You know you’re embarrassing him but this is the only time you see him genuinely smile. You look at your matesprit. “Do you need me for anything?”

Porrim shakes her head. She still has blood and mud on her from the encounter with the Cherubs. She’s wiped away most of the mess with a wet nap but there’s still dried blood in her hair and some stubborn streaks of red and blue on her lips. “I’ll be fine, Rufioh. You obviously need time alone to speak with your…father.”

“Yeah,” you admit, looking at your father, “we really do.”

Its then Kanaya enters the tent. “My gods. The place is crawling with reporters. They’re like ants over honey.” She looks at all of you and then notices your father. Wide-eyed, she mutters, “I missed a lot didn’t I?”

“Dear, you don’t know the _half_ of it.” Porrim chuckles. She gestures to your father, “Kanaya, this is the Summoner, your maternal grandfather. Apparently, the same storm that blew him away, blew him right back here. What are the odds?”

“Astronomically small.” Kanaya comments. She doesn’t have the look of hatred that Aranea wears but one of revulsion.  

If Kanaya is restrained with her anger, you’re afraid to see how Vriska will react. Or rather, you’re afraid of what Vriska will _do,_ given how close she is to her ceruleanblood grandmother. You may be panicking but you don’t want to risk angering a Serket. Aranea is less proactive in her rage than Vriska, who is just a bubbling pot of bad choices followed by forced apologies.

“I think we should leave early. Before things get too hectic.” You suggest to your father.

“Good idea.” your father says, “I’d rather not deal with the reporters right now if I’m going to be in ‘lock down’ like the rest of you.”

“Take care, Mom.” Tavros says.

“Yeah.” Equius mutters. He’s still looking at your father, unsure. 

Your father and you exit the tent. You hear shouts of “There!” and “Someone’s coming out!” before you’re assaulted by journalists. Cameras flash in your face and stage lights wobble over, held up by exhausted interns. You hiss and shut your eyes, feeling the pain in your rapidly contracting pupils. You’re still seeing spots while eager reporters push and shove to get at you. There must be six news stations here. You recognize the talking heads of FOXBEAST-612 and ABC-1025.

“Sir, can you tell us what happened here?”

“Is this the first time such a massive shoot out has taken place here?”

“No comment.” You say, pushing past the reporters. They insist on following you though.

“What do you think about the slow police response reported by your neighbors? Do you think corruption is to blame?”

“Are you associated with any of these rumored ‘Cherubs’?”

“Do you think any suspected officers are working with these Cherubs?”

“Did any of these Cherubs try to speak to you?”

You’ve had your fill of being polite. You notice the swarm of flies and rats hovering near the plentiful garbage. It doesn’t take much nudging to get them to go after the journalists. The flies do the most damage, clinging to faces and getting on camera lenses. Journalists and interns alike flee before the rats come in to bite them. You feel guilty about using the local vermin so much but your nerves are fried and you can’t fly away from their bullshit.

Parasites turn your stomach, whether they’re microscopic or have an early morning talk show.

Your father and you walk from the tent and noise on Fordham Road. You’re glad to be away from it.

You walk in silence for five minutes before your father says, “A bullet got you huh?”

“Yeah.” You scratch your left shoulder. Only your left wing was struck but the connected nerves are tender. “It went clean through. I’m grounded for the next couple of weeks. Its not a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal.” your father says, “Your wings are still a part of your body. They’re as much a part of you as your fingers and horns. To have them injured is to lose access to a part of you. Once…I was in a bad kismesistude. My ashen convinced me to break it up before things went too south but I was slow doing it. Well, shit got too rough and one of my wings got torn. I was grounded for three weeks straight. I nearly went insane being on the ground for that long. It was like being on Alternia again and having to hide my gift.” He smiles. “Guess the lesson there is ‘always listen to your auspice, even if they’re dickish’.”

You wonder what kismesistude did _that_ damage, but you’re not going to ask. Failed quadrants are a private (and often embarrassing) matter. Still, you wonder who could have done that kind of damage to your father. He towers over you and he could bench press some highblood you know. You think he could take on Kurloz and not break a sweat. With his dark skin, he doesn’t even look like a troll to you. He’s almost alien and you feel so small compared to him. A small, deficit copy. A bootlegged Summoner made in a sweatshop and covered in toxic lead paint.

“Rufioh, are you alright?” Your father’s hand is on your shoulder. Its warm, dark, and heavy. “You look…troubled.”

“I’m fine.” you mutter.

Jegus, is this how Kankri feels all the time? Small and insignificant because he’s in the shadow of his taller, memorable, and beloved father? What about Kurloz, who lives in the shadow of his more psychotic predecessor? No wonder they have such emotional problems.

You come to the end of Fordham and see the police speaking with other black coats about the garbage trucks. Your father raises an eyebrow. “So, tell me your version of what happened here because I feel like the merchant who got all the way to Troll Rome and realized everything was on fire.”

You smirk. “Is Troll Rome a thing or did you just make that up, old man?”

He smirks back. “Either way, you’ll never know, brat.”

You laugh and tell him your version of what happened here.

The crucial difference between Kankri, Kurloz, and you is that your father never abused you. You have nothing but happy memories involving him. You still don’t know how you feel about having him back but you know the one feeling you don’t have is hatred.

When you get to your trailer, you’re three quarters through the events. Police are leaving it, taking body bags with them. The door of your trailer is cracked open. The smell of blood and death hits you in the face. You wince but don’t turn away from it. You pull out a flashlight from the supply bag the black coats gave you so you can survey the damage.  

The trailer is a disaster but you expect as much from a rampaging highblood. The living room bears the brunt of what happened. There are deep gouges in the wall, from someone scrambling to get away, which you follow to a messy splatter on the floor. There’s another splatter on the wall and a dent from someone’s head being slammed into the drywall. There are bullet holes in the floor and the wall. There’s a sticky dried pool of blood near the couch and now you’re detecting urine. In the corner is the discarded remains of your lamp, which had been used as a club; the blunt end is still sticky with bone and mashed brain. You go to the kitchen and see the bullet bounced off the oven thankfully. You don’t find the bullet so you assume the police took it.

You return to the living room but just feel more disheartened looking at everything. You can’t blame Gamzee for the damages. He was just protecting Tavros and most likely, the Cherubs are responsible for some of the blood, but you worked hard to maintain your home. You bought everything here and now its wrecked, stained with the awful smell of blood and death. You’re going to have to file a report about the damages and see what will be covered.

“Okay, its pretty gross in here right now, so let’s go on the porch.” You suggest.

“Oh thank god you said that.” Your father says.

Your father wants to stay in here as much as you do. On the back porch you have fresh air, or what passes for fresh air here. You sit in a lawn chair and roll another joint from your stash. Your father doesn’t bother trying to fit in the chair and sits on the porch next to you.

“Do you always have weed on you?” your father asks.

“Typically, yes,” you admit, rolling another joint. “Want one?”

“No,” Your father says, “How much of that are you smoking?”

You roll your eyes. You know it’s an immature gesture but it’s not like he was around to discourage you from smoking and he’s the one that brought the seeds for Alternian weed to this planet. He should be the _last one_ to be shocked. You light your blunt and inhale. 

“Why did you come back, Dad?” you ask, “Everyone thought you were dead. We had a _funeral_ for you. We saved up money for a plaque and everything. Does Mom know about you’re being alive?”

Your father nods. “At some point she did. Now? I’m not sure.”

“What made you leave, Dad? You and Mom were so happy. You were one of the few couples who didn’t try to murder each other and I mean that _literally_.”

Your father inhales. “Your mother and I put up a good front for Aranea and you but the truth is that by the time you hatched our matespritship had hit…a snag. There was a lot of friction between your mother and me about our quadrants. To make a long story short, her moirail and my moirail had become enemies over time, to the point where neither of us could stay neutral. That and the criminal element your mother and Darkleer were involved in was…well, it bothered me to say the least. Eventually, we got into a huge fight about quadrant loyalties. She said I had to choose and I chose my moirail. She tried to change my mind…and I had to leave. So I did. I flew out of the country that very night with just the clothes on my back.” He shakes his head. “I never thought she would tell you kids I was _dead_ though.”

How bad could a fight have been to scare off your father like that? This is the troll who faced down the Grand Highblood with just a cocky grin and wit.

“Dad,” you whisper, “what _exactly_ happened between Mom and you during your ‘fight’? Like…um…” You don’t know how to put it in words. 

“We got into a fight…” Your father sighs, “I did hurt her and she hurt me back. We got into a serious fight and I think that’s what Aranea assumes, or she must assume the worst. After all, the Tragedy of the Summoner and the Marquise is well known. Fated to fall in love and then fated to kill her, only to die tragically during his rebellion.” He shakes his head. “But even that fictional tragedy doesn’t make sense when you think about it. Mindfang is— _was_ —one of the most powerful ceruleanblood psionics on Alternia. She would force any attacker to kill themselves instantly. I’ve seen her do it. For serious and for fun. She hurt me and I hurt her back. I got really angry and threw her into the wall after she hurt me first. I wasn’t thinking. I was just defending myself. I regret doing it but it was already too late. Things would have been a lot worse but I don’t really blame her for attacking first. It is—was—her way. Now? I just don’t know…maybe, maybe I don’t _want_ to know…”

He’s talking in circles. It reminds you of Tavros’s nervous rambling whenever the subject of Hanael or Vriska is brought up. Slowly, you feel ice crawl into your stomach.

“Oh my gods.” You mutter, “When you made that choice…she tried to change your _mind_.”

“Well, yeah,” your father says, “I just said that.”

You look at your father’s face but there are no beads of sweat or nervous twitches. He’s serene as Kankri in his pains and it unsettles you more. Even the weed can’t take the edge off of that.

“What did you do?” you ask.

Your father flexes his fingers, as if his muscles are recalling the incident. “I didn’t react well. I overreacted but I was scared. Having your mind changed is never a fun thing. Its frightened. Really frightening. I attacked her, threw her head into the wall. Maybe I would have done worse if my auspistice hadn’t shown up. He made us have a talk and we talked for a real long time. I decided to leave that night. It was for the best.” He hesitates and smoke again. “Maybe.”

You still question if trying to change his mind is _all_ your mother did. What if she shifted things around? Purposely made sure he _wouldn’t_ come back or _couldn’t_? Its only speculation though. You’re not your mother and you weren’t there for the fight…but Aranea would know. She was older and far more observant than you.

“You have to tell Aranea.” You say.

“She wouldn’t understand.” Your father says, “I always thought that you would be the one who would be the angriest with me. We were very close and I left suddenly. I see now its Aranea who bore the brunt of what happened. She was older. She had to grow up fast to help raise you.”

“I’m sure she’s not _that_ mad.” Your father stares at you and you sigh, “Well, she’s _pissed_ but she’s not beyond reason. She’ll want to talk to you about this. Its just this is a shock. Aranea’s sort of…anal retentive. Once she has things planned out, she doesn’t do well with little snags and hiccups. It really irritates her. Its been like that since we were little cause, well, Mom wasn’t really good with planning things out cause…well, she’s _Mom._ ”

Your father inhales again. “Latchkey kids, huh?”

“Big time. I know its not a big deal to your generation cause you were like latchkey kids with semi-sentient pets but its different for us. Aranea had to plan everything from meals to bills and stuff and things would still get screwed up. We had to stay in the motels for a while cause, at the time, they were still building up the trailer park. East End Way motels are fucking _gross_. Mold, bed bugs, rats…do you know you can’t commune with rabid animals?”

You’re laughing at the memory of your younger self tries to commune with rodents whose brains were too damaged to consider any higher function besides ‘attack’ and ‘eat’. The weed is finally working its way through your system, calming your shit at least. You take a big puff and feel your bones ready to melt out of your pores.

Your father isn’t. “I’ve had the experience.”

“I got bit _so many fucking times_!” you laugh, “And the whole time I was like 'wonder if Dad ever had this problem, wherever he was' and I used to wish that you’d come back and things could go back to normal well…well, I guess I must have an actual fairy on my side cause I got my wish! I got my wish…my…” You inhale again. “…I got my wish twenty something years too late.”

Your father doesn’t respond. He looks at you calmly.

“So what happened with Darkleer, huh?” you ask, “Did you not help him get out of debt? Did you encourage him to kill himself? Did you give him the gun? Did you not realize what happened until it was too late? You disappeared around the same time he died, right?”

Your father looks away then but still he’s calm. When he looks back at you he asks, “You got a spare blunt for your old man?”

“Sure.” You’re annoyed about not getting an answer right but you begrudgingly roll one for your father.

Your father lights the blunt with practiced expertise. He inhales slowly, blinks, and then looks at you. “This is good. What’d you grow this from?”

“Some weedvils were eating up my crops last year so Porrim helped me splice some of my weed with a resistant bunch of plants. I called this strain Bronze Butterfly.”

“Looks like a green thumb runs in the family.” your father laughs, breathing out a plume of marijuana smoke. “The police here won’t care that we’re coating the neighborhood with this?”

“Nah. Weed’s legal and the cops can’t tell the difference between Alternian and the boring, Old Earth weed.” You inhale more smoke, feeling it rub away the edges like sandpaper. “What happened with Darkleer?”

Your father frowns. “I killed him.”

You stare at your father, trying to find the lie in what he’s saying. Your father may have been a cavalreaper captain but he wasn’t the kind of person to murder in cold blood. You can’t see him killing Darkleer without a reason, but you can’t think of the reason why.

“Why?” you ask.

“He disrespected my moirail.” your father says, “Talking shit about me is one thing but I don’t tolerate people treating my quadrants like dirt under their heels, no matter who they are. It wasn’t easy. Darkleer and I hadn’t been the closest of friends. We were on opposite ends of the spectrum, you see? And it wasn’t just blood but social. I was a peasant who dug in his heels and pushed through the ranks on nothing but vigor only and he was a born aristocrat. There was always friction between us but we tolerated it. _I_ tolerated it and everything he did. That’s why I didn’t stay in that manor. I didn’t want anything to do with his shit or anything else Mindfang and him were doing. Out of sight, out of mind…that was my motto.” He shakes his head. “It was my motto until I couldn’t. I had to pick a side. I _had_ to.”

Your father is still calm as he speaks, refusing to show the tension he must be feeling.

“How do you feel about it?” you ask.

“I just don’t know.” your father says after a minute of deliberation, “I chose my moirail over my matesprit. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do. I _still_ don’t know if it was right. It wasn’t easy. Darkleer knew I was coming for him. He put up a fight. And even after it was done…it wasn’t easy.”

Oh, Aranea is _definitely_ not going to understand considering who her matesprit is. Should you even tell Horuss and Meulin? There’s no way they’d react positively to this. You have no idea how your father is being so completely mellow about it. Maybe he’s just faced the facts about the situation.

You don’t know what to say or do. Aranea’s angry at your father but at least she feels _something._ You can’t feel true sympathy for him or understanding. The weed is taking its affect, washing out your more extreme feeling into a wave of calm. It’ll keep you from having an emotional meltdown but after it wears off, then what? Maybe you’ll yell at your father for abandoning you. Maybe you’ll emphasize because you’ve avoided your problems too. You’ve never been as stalwart in your opinions, like your sister. Maybe you’ll flip between hatred and affection before just settling on indifference.

Or nothing at all.

“Are you here to stay?” you ask.

“If you want me to.” your father says.

“Maybe if you stay long enough, you’ll think of what to say to Aranea.”

Your father nods and keeps smoking.

Its still dark and you don’t know what time it is. The neighborhood that was polluted with light is now entirely dark. The police lights have stopped flashing and the ambulances are gone. The media must still be here because you can see the flicker of photography on occasion. Without all the lights, you can actually see the stars here. The last time you saw them was post-Calliope when the power got knocked out for three days in the entire ward.

Your father is silent but you can’t tell if he’s contemplating or feeling the weed take effect. Another smell starts to fill the neighborhood and you recognize it immediately.

“Barbeque? At this hour?” You said.

“Your neighbors must be cooking the meat in the fridges. Without power, all the meat will spoil otherwise.”

You squint to see the source of the barbeque smoke and as you suspected, it looks to be coming from the Strider trailer. “Only someone in _our_ neighborhood would do such a thing.” you sigh. Your blunt is almost gone. You put it out and toss it away. Your father’s blunt is almost done as well. “Maybe we should join them. I got like half a rack of ribs.”

“Think I should stay here, given how Aranea reacted to me.” You say.

“Nah.” You stand and look at your father. “If you’re going to stay here, hiding out isn’t a good idea. You have to get used to the people. The more you talk to them, the better it’ll be. Aranea will warm up if you show up enough.”

“Maybe.” Your father agrees.

“C’mon. You can help me carry some frozen vegetables.”

“Putting me to work already? I thought I was the guest?” Your father laughs.

You smile. “Guests do work in the Nitram household. You have to use those muscles for something.”

You walk back inside to check out the condition of your freezer. The smell inside is just as tolerable as it was before but now your temporary high is distracting you. You need the diversion after this night because you know the next couple of weeks aren’t going to be easy.

 


End file.
